


What an Expensive Fate

by Perilous_Grey



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fuhrer Roy Mustang, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23752090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perilous_Grey/pseuds/Perilous_Grey
Summary: Roy wakes to white.For a blissful second his mind doesn’t register the implications, the horror, but as his eyes adjust to the expansive nothingness, the first trickle of unadulterated terror drips through his veins, snaking around his heart, his lungs, jarring them to stillness.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Roy Mustang
Comments: 1
Kudos: 95





	What an Expensive Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "bellyache" by Billie Eilish which motivated a majority of this piece. 
> 
> Eternal gratitude to Sy for giving the first draft a swift kick in the ass (and apologies because I changed quite a bit since then), even though she had no idea who these characters are but still "supports Roy being a Dark Bitch™".
> 
> Just a note: changing tenses halfway through writing your story without noticing is not advisable for many reasons, among them having to rewrite half of your story, getting fed up, writing two separate versions in different tenses, then fine tooth combing your editing process to the extreme trying to find all the incorrect usages in the final draft and second guessing your previous self's choices, replacing whole sentences on the fly.
> 
> However, everyone has their individual writing process, so you do you.

Roy wakes to white.

For a blissful second his mind doesn’t register the implications, the horror, but as his eyes adjust to the expansive nothingness, the first trickle of unadulterated terror drips through his veins, snaking around his heart, his lungs, jarring them to stillness.

He doesn’t dare turn around lest he find himself standing before the looming grey stone of his gate, etched with his favored symbol the same way it’s burned into the back of his eyelids. It would be a step too far, too much for his sluggish brain to grapple with.

Laying eyes upon the gate and the hungry hands laying in wait behind it, ready to drag him back into a terrifying chasm of knowledge, was a singularly humbling experience he never needed repeated. If he turns around now it will be confirmation he is back _there_ again and the animal panic beating a high-pitched staccato against the inside of his skull will stampede over any and all rationality. 

He needs to keep his cool.

Roy allows himself one nervous swallow, straightens his spine, and dismisses the idea of his gate entirely, instead focusing on the figure standing before him.

 _Or imitating_ , he muses, because that pressed navy uniform bears the markings of his rank across confident shoulders, the crimson stitching on the back of those gloves match the stash he keeps in his study drawer, and that careless tousle of dark hair he spends too much time styling each morning to look effortless is unmistakable. 

Except for the eyes.

Where gunmetal grey should be are two windows into a fathomless abyss, and it seems to be _roiling_.

Every regret, every buried insecurity, every bloody failure personified in this reflection and missing what he so dearly lacked: foresight.

It taunts him, this horrid visage, and then the darkness _moves_ — inky tendrils crawling out of those gaping sockets to form dozens of spindly hands, clawing their way free while leaving gashes across sullen cheeks as they shift — towards him. Truth’s knowledge ready to drag him back through the gate except this time, he would be entirely consumed by this demon.

 _His_ demons. 

Who knew Truth had such a sense of humor?

Unfortunately for the entity, Roy absolutely refuses to be dragged back through, never again. Not for any esoteric knowledge would he relive being ripped apart by the very seams of his soul, molecule by molecule, stitch by stitch, only to be forcefully jigsawed together all wrong again, too-jagged pieces grating and ripping where they should click and settle, his head fit to bursting with an ocean’s worth of knowledge raging against the teacup of a human brain it was forced into.

The familiar rasp of ignition cloth is loud in his ears, fingers clenching at his sides in a desperate need to act as those dreaded appendages creep closer. 

A localized explosion at this range would likely kill him, assuming Truth’s realm plays by human laws of physics, and testing that assumption based on pure adrenaline and the acrid tang of dread coating his throat is nowhere within his usual playbook.

It is, however, within Ed’s. 

Escaping impossible situations hinging on split-second decision making certainly fell under his area of expertise, alchemy or not. At the moment there was little else in the way of viable options without proper preparation or strategy.

Perhaps it was time to tear out a few pages. 

Roy carefully exhales. He's bet on slimmer odds with far higher stakes. 

Summoning his usual mask of smug confidence through sheer will, he tilts his chin in minute defiance, fingers bracing to snap.

The creature’s smirk turns positively _gleeful_.

In seconds those wispy appendages are darting forward, slithering through his mind, his memories, his infinitely infinitesimal being, pressing and reshaping as they please all that he is, was, and could be, until all that remained was a mass of writhing agony that had once been known as Roy Mustang.

Was this even real? Was his corporeal form truly in perpetual agony without spilling a single drop of blood? Was it all in his head, a million frenzied hands tearing through his psyche, eager to feast on the endless anguish of a traumatized mind? Or had his physical and mental state been so irreparably deconstructed that only his soul could cry out in unadulterated pain? The lack of definite answers only added fuel to the scorching fire of existence.

Gloved hands suddenly grip his head, a welcome distraction— 

But then those _eyes_ are boring down at him and how long has he been on his knees? 

The wraith grins too wide with too-sharp teeth, a thousand voices condensing to a single chilling chorus, "Wasn’t this what you wanted? The knowledge to change the very foundation of a country built on centuries of bloodlust and lies, to finally bring peace to a ravaged populace?"

 _No_ , Roy wants to scream, clawing desperately at the array he has spent so many years laboring to master with all its destructive fury, _no knowledge is worth this price._

"Yet you have already paid," it laughs while digging stolen thumbs under Roy’s eyes, "and suffered no greater consequence, sacrificing the souls of innocents for your own gain once more."

“I set them free,” Roy whispers.

Yes, using the human souls of the stone as payment restored his sight. That is a fact. Ed told him they were trapped in eternal purgatory, yearning to move on but forever imprisoned within the stone, regardless of action or inaction. 

Is he any better for using them to try and mend what is already irreparably damaged, to forge a brighter future where such a tragedy will never again come to pass? 

He already knows that answer.

More importantly, what if Ed is wrong?

His heart gives a traitorous squeeze. 

Roy has absolute faith in Ed, no matter how many times they clash and argue until they’re blue in the face, but what does he truly know compared to an omniscient sentience?

Enough to face Truth and merge the victor; he certainly knew enough to contend with a godly being and walk away more than once. Now wasn’t the time to start doubting him.

"Is that so?" Truth hums, leaning down until their foreheads brush in a mockery of intimacy, "then let me set you free."

And then those hands are _everywhere_ and drowning him once more— 

Roy bolts upright, a strangled cry dying in his throat. Darkness greets him and for a moment it is impossible to breathe through the sheer terror clogging his lungs, the gate has swallowed him whole again and he is never going to see the light of day—

He flinches violently at the gentle press to his side.

Calloused fingertips caress the jut of his hip bone, trailing a path of soothing circles to just below the scarring wrapped around his rib cage, slow and comforting, a drowsy hum of inquiry breaking the silent night.

Roy inhales sharply at the touch. The gate was many things but kind was nowhere near its vernacular, let alone tender; he’d sooner be torn to metaphysical shreds. 

Dragging a trembling hand down his face proves reaffirming: he isn’t _there_ , wouldn’t be exhaling shakily into a humid night that sat thick and cloying on the back of his tongue, barely illuminated by a thin strip of moonlight, wouldn’t feel the slide of silk sheets against his clammy skin or the fading warmth of a shared cocoon, certainly wouldn’t hear the soft exhales of a body barely roused from slumber still drawing calming patterns along his side.

No, Roy can’t be stuck in that nightmare realm because it would never allow him the boon of facing it jointly.

The urge to press the heels of his palms into his eye sockets is startlingly strong. Yet he can feel the reassuring shape of each eye against each lid, no absence, no emptiness, and doing so will only serve in disrupting his restored vision with staticky stars.

“Mm,” a voice hums on an inhale, “whazzit?” Sleep clings to every syllable and Roy has to stifle a bout of hysterical laughter lest the sheer relief overwhelm him.

He’s not overly successful.

“Wha—” a jaw cracking yawn. “S’funny?”

Body trembling with giddy amusement, Roy tries to muster an answer, but if he opens his mouth there’s an equal chance that what comes out will be either peals of laughter or racking sobs.

Best not to chance it.

There’s a grunt of displeasure then warm fingers are jabbing into his middle. “Don’t ignore me you jerk.”

Roy quickly grabs the offending digits before lacing them with his own, squeezing tight.

“I would never,” he forces through lips made of sandpaper and it’s a wonder the words don’t emerge dripping red for all that it feels like he’s been gargling razor blades in his sleep, “I don’t think anyone would be able to ignore you if they tried.”

“Fuck off, bastard.”

“See? How is anyone capable of ignoring such eloquence?” Either his decidedly not sleep roughened voice has gone unnoticed or Ed is willfully overlooking it. 

Roy likes to think he’s able to disguise the aftermath of his demons rearing their ugly heads quite well, and to anyone else except maybe Riza, he’d pass muster; laugh it off as a night spent out a tad too late, lament that he lost track of time reading an alchemy treatise that has been sitting untouched on the bedside table for far too long, snark about debating the finer points of transmutation and new alchemic research with Edward because everyone knew they each generated enough stubbornness to thwart gravity. And when aiming at each other? Only a thoroughly sound defeat will get them to concede, although these days a well timed distraction works just as well, if not better, depending on who you ask and who initiates it.

But this isn’t his stalwart team.

This is _Ed_. Volatile, vociferous, vivacious Ed, who bulldozed through his impenetrable walls by merely being his unapologetic self and who willingly chose to help shoulder the Amestris sized burden on Roy’s shoulders with barely a pause of consideration, because when Ed loved it was with his whole self and not an ounce less.

Roy wouldn’t hide this from him even if he thought he had a chance in hell of doing so.

Ed remains quiet, a half-lidded amber eye peering through a halo of golden strands spread across the pillows, resting comfortably on his side. Their clasped hands are their only point of contact, yet it feels as reassuring as any embrace, bridging the purposeful space between them. Present, but not intruding. 

A swell of gratitude lodges itself firmly in his throat, so he brings their joined hands to his lips instead, pressing a feather light kiss to the back of Ed’s hand, flesh and blood and bone once more. Roy can, and has, spent hours marveling over the simple flex and bend of those deceptively delicate tendons, the press and pull of each finger tangled with his own. There’s a returning brush against his scarred knuckles and for a moment, all is right in the world, held still in this bubble of tranquility where neither demons of whispered shadows or harsh daylight can intrude; two souls basking in a moment of hard won respite, in each other.

There’s always tomorrow after all.

And remaining still was hardly Ed’s forte.

“C’mon,” Ed tugs with a fraction of his usual force, rearranging Roy to his liking until they are twined as close as humanly possible, his head cradled against a muscled chest, “can’t run a country on caffeine ‘n determination alone.” His heart beats a steady, drugging rhythm under Roy’s ear, _alive, alive, alive,_ each thump seeping the lingering adrenaline away.

“I beg to differ.”

“You haven’t begged for anything a day in your fuckin’ life.”

“A simple expression, Edward, really—”

“Shut up, it’s too late for one of your full-name, self-important lectures.”

“Really now,” Roy murmurs drowsily, “most of my staff is powered by their sheer belief in doing good. To change their country for the better.”

Ed snorts. Roy sharply pinches Ed’s flank, delighting in his feral hiss of annoyance, even as it earns him a retaliatory smack.

“...and the motor oil that passes for coffee, brewed strong enough to peel paint off the walls.”

“Sounds like a front row seat to Amestris’s self-destruction. Pass.”

“Rude.”

Silence descends, blanket-soft and increasingly hazy as the minutes tick by. 

Steady fingers thread through Roy’s hair, a silent _I’m here_ and _I’m not leaving_.

Teetering on the edge of oblivion, Roy grasps at the shoulders of his salvation and lets Ed’s even breathing carry him away.


End file.
